


I'm cold, but you light the fire in me

by escriveine



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Ineffable Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Inspired by Fanart, Other, Post-Canon, Vignette, no beta we saunter vaguely downwards like Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 15:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20695805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escriveine/pseuds/escriveine
Summary: A vignette of ineffable fluff in which there is banter, a profusion of scarves, and a walk in the park. Also cocoa, snow, and kissing (not necessarily in that order).⸻Inspired by Khiroptera’s adorable fanart featuring the Ineffable Husbands in scarves in the snow. (original Tumblr post)





	I'm cold, but you light the fire in me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Khiroptera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khiroptera/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Ineffable Husbands in Scarves (in the snow)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/520985) by Khiroptera. 

> By custom and practice, the title comes from Queen: “One Year of Love”

Crowley cast a furtive glance towards the poky staircase at the back of the bookshop. Even if he managed to reach it undetected, those creaky risers would heartlessly betray his position. He heaved a great sigh and settled his sunglasses firmly on his nose. At least he’d go with style.

“Oh, Crowley, there you are!” Aziraphale’s voice was muffled by an armload of fabric he was trying to stabilize with his chin. He bustled in and dropped the lot onto the sofa. “I have some lovely warm things for you to try. They’re made of something called _ microfleece!” _

“What, it comes from tiny sheep?” Crowley asked as he edged closer to the multi-colored disarray. It _ was _ winter, after all, and if Aziraphale wouldn’t let him stay burrowed in a nest of blankets upstairs… 

“No, it comes from that little boutique down the way,” the angel answered. He held out something that was solid black and draped like the folds of a soft meringue when he laid it over Crowley’s shoulder. “The proprietor makes everything herself and was positively giddy to get a bespoke order.”

The warmth spreading across Crowley’s narrow chest undoubtedly came from the garment resting there. Nothing to do with a gift being secretly commissioned for him on the off-chance he’d like it. No, it was clearly down to this novel insulating material invented by clever human people.

Aziraphale picked up a buff-colored jacket and gave it an admiring look. “She certainly did a wonderful job on my companion piece.” He flashed a delighted grin at Crowley. “Aren’t the mother-of-pearl buttons just marvelous?”

“N’yah, marvelous,” said Crowley, as though he could see anything other than the angel’s beaming face. Heat was crawling up his neck now; what amazing fabric this was.

As Aziraphale slipped into his new coat, the demon busied himself with what turned out to be a pullover, struggling briefly as the high, fitted collar tried to claim his glasses. Grumbling about the blessed nuisance, Crowley was just sliding his shades back in place when Aziraphale laid gentle hands on his shoulders.

The angel hummed absently as ran his palms down Crowley’s arms, then along the sweater’s hemline and side seams, testing for fit and ease. “How does it feel, my dear? Not too snug?” he murmured.

Several things felt too snug, including Crowley's sternum, under which his heart swelled and pounded like it truly meant to break free. But if the angel could feel the reckless, ridiculous rhythm, he made no mention of it. Crowley slid his hands along Aziraphale’s soft-clad arms, up over his shoulders, and around until he had the angel well ensconced. “Just right,” he said in a tight whisper. “You?”

Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled with cerulean joy as a smile wreathed his face. Whatever answer he might have given was lost in the extended kiss Crowley had absolutely no choice but to give him.

Some unregarded amount of time later, the angel drew his lips away and pressed his forehead to Crowley’s. “Just right, indeed,” he murmured. Easing a little further back, Aziraphale said, “But we need to get a wiggle on to make it to the Park while it’s still light out.”

By now the warmth that had been steadily creeping up his face must have reached Crowley’s brain, because he made no more than a token eyeroll and sotto voce reply of, _“Wiggle on._ Right.” Aziraphale merrily scrunched his nose under his little round glasses. It was objectively adorable, and Crowley was fully prepared to fight anyone who found it less than utterly charming.[1]  


The angel was rummaging through the remaining strips of colorful fleece festooning the sofa. “I really wasn’t sure what pattern you’d like best, so I ordered an even dozen.[2] For now, though, how about something in red?” He somewhat shyly proffered a dark red scarf picked out with white paisleys and starbursts.

“I think the 1970s might want their motif back, angel,” Crowley said weakly.

“Hush, now. Oscar Wilde adored paisley, and with good reason.”

“Fine, the _ 1870s _ want their motif back,” Crowley said as Aziraphale wound the scarf around him.

“Everything old is new again,” said Aziraphale as he selected a blue scarf with a paler blue tartan pattern for himself. “As dear Oscar said, ‘One should either be a work of art or wear a work of art.’ You, my darling, qualify on both counts.”

Crowley was insanely grateful for the layers of fleece that hid his gaping mouth and blushing cheeks when Aziraphale trotted that out with a saucy wink. The bastard. The demon did a quick about-face and charged out the front doors of the bookshop, hoping the chill winter air would keep his hair from catching fire. Cheeky angel.

A moment later, said menace in microfleeces stepped calmly out onto the walk and locked up the shop behind them.

“Ooh, I _am_ glad we bundled up. It’s nippy out,” Aziraphale confided as he slipped his left hand into Crowley’s right. 

It felt quite natural to hold hands like this, though Crowley’s heart decided to flutter like a hummingbird before settling back down. For a mostly ornamental organ, it had some decidedly human reactions around the angel.

They walked in warm, companionable silence, taking no notice of the pedestrians and traffic that made way for them.

As they reached the railing just across from their bench[3] by St James’s Park Lake, tiny flakes of snow began to glint in the afternoon sun. Aziraphale smiled at the flittering crystals and said, “Wouldn’t it be lovely if it snowed properly for a change? Just imagine — we could watch it mound up in drifts right up to the bedroom windowsill while we snuggled under the duvet. And we could have _cocoa_ and not stir out for a _week_…” 

And Crowley did imagine it: a warm armful (lapful, bedful) of happy (disheveled, sumptuous) angel for a gloriously uninterrupted week. “Are you telling me that all it will take to get you to close the bookshop and loll about—” Crowley leaned close and whispered into Aziraphale’s ear, “—_in bed with me— _is a great whack of frozen precip?”

“Well, erm, a blizzard isn’t strictly _ required_,” Aziraphale flustered, “I just thought it would, you know, be pretty. Especially if we were all cozy with hot drinks and blankets and, and, well, _ each other.” _There was a good deal more pink in his cheeks than could really be accounted for by the weather.

Crowley raised Aziraphale’s hand and planted a courtly kiss to the back of it. “Then allow me.” With a quick wink of his own over the rim of his dark glasses, the demon turned and strode over to a wood-shingled food stand. “Vendor human! I require an _ enormous _ mug of cocoa with marshmallows and thick lashings of whipped cream!”

Nothing much fazed long-time Refreshment Point professionals in St James’s Park, though the person on duty felt they should point out that ‘enormous’ wasn’t, in fact, one of the sizes on offer. Just as they opened their mouth, however, the impossibly skinny customer in black (accented with a bright red scarf) pointed at a very, very large glass mug sitting on the counter. The vendor, whose name was Alex, reckoned it was kismet, and went to wash out the mug, because there was no reason to stretch a bit of good fortune past the breaking point.

Satisfied that the mortal was getting on with it, Crowley strutted into a clear grassy area and unwound his scarf. He was quite sure that the only eyes that could see him right now belonged to the only being in the whole damn universe he truly cared to impress. 

Cocking his head to the sky, Crowley raised a meaningful eyebrow and said, “Right, you lot. We’re trying to cut down on the big miracles at the moment, but there is an angel over there who wants a bumper crop of fat flakes, and his slightest whim is, I assure you, your command.” The demon dropped his voice into the low register of menace. “Because if you disappoint him, you will  _ answer to ME. _ ” A low rumble quavered through the clouds above. 

An ophidian grin flickered across Crowley’s face as he said, “Let’s do this.” Then, like the main attraction on a disco floor, Crowley slapped his left hand to his hip, threw back his head, and extended his right hand to point up at the lowering sky. “And you guys _SNOW BETTER!”_ he shouted.

He held the pose for a moment, just to underscore the point, then sauntered back to the food stand.

Crowley flung a stack of paper money down on the counter, happy to grossly overpay for the cocoa if it meant not having to discuss the matter. When he walked off, carefully balancing the mug so as not to dislodge the wobbling mountain of whipped cream, Alex wisely decided to just take the cash and sort out the specifics later.

Aziraphale was watching the feathery snowflakes swirling through the air, mesmerized by their playful, meandering descent to the surface of the lake. He stirred from his reverie as Crowley pressed a warm mug of something that smelled simply divine into his hands.

“Oh, thank you, my dear,” the angel murmured before taking a mouthful of cinnamon-sprinkled cream off the top as decorously as possible. He let out a happy moan. "Mmm, that's simply _scrumptious."_

Producing a handkerchief from the back pocket of his jeans, Crowley dabbed at the corners of Aziraphale’s smiling lips. The angel wondered if Crowley had any idea how kind his expression was, how much love he was radiating, but thought it best not to mention any of the 'four-letter words' just then. Instead, he said, “Should I ask what you were up to with that impressive Orator’s pose earlier?”

Crowley shook with laughter. Only Aziraphale would call a bit of impromptu Saturday Night Fever 'impressive', or for that matter, link it to classical sculpture. He kissed his angel’s sweet lips and murmured, “That was just a bit of, ah, encouragement. With any luck, we’ll be snowed in for days and days.”

“Do you really think so?” Aziraphale’s eyes glowed with hopeful anticipation.

Crowley pushed his glasses up onto his forehead, glanced at the falling snow, then back at Aziraphale. “I think this storm will not disappoint.” He grinned and stole another kiss. “Shall we head back and make a start on wrapping ourselves together in blankets, maybe watch the snow mount up?”

“That sounds positively _ delightful.”_

By the next morning, the storm had given its little all, laying down a thick layer of coarse snow that glistened like sanding sugar. The drifts never reached the bedroom windowsill, but the bookstore was closed for a whole week, just the same.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Not that Crowley — a demon with a certain reputation for coolth and savoir-faire to maintain — could say any of that aloud, of course. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2 For the record, that included two of each of the Hogwarts House Colors, two of the Fourth Doctor’s scarf, one in red paisley, and one in pastel blue tartan. [ return to text ]
> 
> 3 It had a brass plaque reading “To the World / On behalf of Messieurs A. J. Crowley and A. Z. Fell” that had been carefully placed to cover a wood-burned image of a serpent winding around and through a winged heart. [ return to text ]


End file.
